Daniel Whitmore walked slowly between the gravestones, holding a bouquet of white lilies against his chest. He didn’t look left or right. Other people’s grief was background noise. His was a constant echo inside his ribs.
Since the reported death of his twin daughters, Lily and Rose Whitmore, he had come to the cemetery every week. At first, people called it part of healing. Later, they stopped commenting. A grieving father isn’t questioned. He’s observed carefully, from afar.
Daniel was wealthy—real estate holdings, private drivers, a surname that opened doors. But in front of the shared headstone, he was just a man undone.
The fire at his ex-wife Victoria Hale’s house had taken everything. That’s what they told him.
There had been smoke, chaos, hospital calls, officials speaking in low tones. “You shouldn’t see the bodies,” someone had advised. “It’s better this way.” The funeral had been swift. The paperwork efficient. The case sealed tight.
Daniel had signed everything in a haze.
Now he knelt before the polished stone. Lily Whitmore. Rose Whitmore. Forever loved.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, placing his hand on the cold marble. “I should’ve been there.”